


Business As Usual

by veronamay



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode: s01e09 Home, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Slash, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-09-17
Updated: 2006-09-17
Packaged: 2018-01-12 15:58:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1191039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veronamay/pseuds/veronamay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A coda to ‘Home’.  Dean patches Sam’s wounds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Business As Usual

They got the fuck out of Lawrence.

Dean didn’t say anything: he just drove, hands tense on the wheel, until they hit I-35 outside Kansas City. Then he turned into the parking lot of the first motel they came to – a Super 8 – and killed the engine. Half-asleep, Sam didn’t realise they’d stopped until Dean was already out of the car, heading for the office. Sam sat up and rubbed a hand over his face. He felt about a hundred years old. Every bruise on his body ached; his head was throbbing; his throat was a bright, constant flare of pain.

Mom saved his life. She’d smiled at him.

She was so beautiful.

Sam swallowed hard, squeezing his eyes shut against threatening tears. He could still see her, standing there looking up at him, her face so loving, so sad. He could still hear Dean’s sharp breath when she let herself go up in flames.

Had she been there in their house all this time? Waiting for her boys to come home?

Sam hoped not; not so much for her sake, but for Dean’s. He didn’t like to think how Dean would feel if he thought they’d left that house with Mom still trapped in it.

He watched Dean walk back to the car, sunglasses covering his face. He could read Dean’s mood just by body language: tight shoulders, quick, controlled strides, jaw clenched just short of grinding. Lockdown, Winchester style. Private Property. Keep Out. Trespassers Will Be Shot. Sam wondered what it’d take to get Dean to let him in. He wasn’t likely to find out.

“They’re out of doubles,” Dean said, leaning in the window. “Want to try somewhere else?”

“No,” Sam said. “I don’t care. Just don’t hog the blankets.”

“Pot, meet kettle.” Dean gave him the keys. “Number nine. I’ll go pay.”

Sam moved the car and unloaded their gear, his stomach rumbling with hunger. They hadn’t stopped for breakfast – or for dinner last night either, come to think of it. No wonder he felt like shit. He couldn’t blame Dean for rushing them away from Lawrence, though; now that the danger was past he didn’t really want to stick around either. There was too much there to deal with.

Dean let him have the first shower, an unprecedented event. Sam eased carefully under the spray, the water making each cut and bruise throb painfully. He watched pinkish water trail into the drain, his hands against the wall, the full force of the water falling on the back of his neck. He stayed under like that for as long as he could without feeling guilty, letting his tears escape, letting himself finally feel some peace.

Maybe tonight he’d sleep without dreaming.

When he left the bathroom, Dean was dozing, propped up against the bedhead. Sam put his duffel up on the table across from the bed and dug through it, dropping his towel and pulling on clean shorts. The search for a t-shirt took longer; they went through a lot of shirts.

“You took your time,” Dean said, his normal mocking edge absent. “Did you leave me any-- _Jesus_ , Sam!”

“What?” Sam looked around at Dean, who was staring at his back. “What’s the matter?”

“How the hell did this happen?” Dean was off the bed in a second, his hands fluttering across Sam’s skin, not quite touching. He sounded almost _angry_ , like he was going to tear Sam a new one for letting a poltergeist use him for a piñata. Then he looked at Dean’s face, and saw his expression, and swallowed the words in his throat.

“It’s nothing serious,” he said instead. “Just a few scrapes, courtesy of our unfriendly neighbourhood poltergeist.”

Dean’s jaw was clenched so hard Sam thought he might crack a tooth. “Sit,” Dean ordered, shoving him toward the bed. “Stay.”

“Woof,” Sam said, but Dean ignored him, searching his own duffel for the first aid kit. Sam sat on the bed, feeling ridiculous – it was just bruises and small cuts, nothing that wouldn’t heal on its own, for God’s sake. But Dean was in a weird mood, so he did what he was told, and tried not to twitch when Dean crawled onto the bed behind him and put his hands on Sam’s shoulders, lightly cataloguing each abrasion. It felt like he was a kid again, when Dean would patch him up and hug him and that would make him feel better than all the painkillers in the world. He was surprised to realise how much he missed that. He wasn’t at all surprised to realise that the feeling was still there.

“I can do this myself, you know,” he said, when Dean started applying peroxide and gauze. “Go take your shower, man. You gotta be as tired as I am.”

“Shut up.” Dean didn’t even pause, smoothing bruise cream over a particularly aching spot. Sam started to turn around, and Dean put a hand on the back of his neck. “Don’t move. I’m not finished.”

“Dean, come on—” Sam began, and Dean’s hands slid down beneath his ribs, holding his sides. He felt the faintest of brushes ( _lips_ ) against the back of his neck, and then Dean spoke, his voice low.

“Sam, _please_. Just let me do this, okay?”

Sam went still. Dean’s voice was uneven, thick, and Sam wasn’t entirely sure but he thought Dean might be _crying_.

He put a hand over Dean’s on his waist, threading their fingers together.

“Okay.”

Dean’s breath shuddered over the back of his neck, and he clenched their hands into a fist. Then his hands slid away, back to work, and Sam sat and let Dean look after him.

When he was done, Dean rolled off the other side of the bed without speaking and went into the bathroom. Sam watched him, a lump in his throat that had nothing to do with being strangled. He had no idea what to do.

Dean stayed in the bathroom for so long Sam’s tiredness caught up with him; he slumped down onto the bed, groaning in relief when he stretched out horizontal for the first time in two days. Five minutes later he slipped quietly and deeply into sleep.

Somewhere around sunset he woke, his bladder demanding attention. The room was painted in shades of gold and russet, light filtering through the curtains. He didn’t want to move. He was warm, and comfortable, and—

\--and Dean was sleeping next to him, his face smoothed out in sleep. He was sprawled on his stomach, face turned toward Sam, one arm flung over Sam’s waist. He looked about sixteen. Sam watched him for a minute, wondering as he sometimes did what their lives would’ve been like if they’d grown up normal. What Dean would’ve done. Where they’d be now. Then his bladder protested again, and he eased Dean’s arm away so he could get up.

Dean groped aimlessly in his sleep, searching, then he curled the arm in close to his side and frowned, and Sam’s heart turned over. He slipped silently from the bed and went into the bathroom. As he was washing up, he turned and looked over his shoulder in the mirror, checking Dean’s handiwork. It didn’t hurt; the cuts were already healing, and the bruises would fade in a few days. But he’d remember the treatment for a long time to come.

He got back into bed, figuring they might as well sleep the night through and make a fresh start in the morning. He’d had no dreams, and they needed the rest. Turning on his side, he put his hand out until it edged against Dean’s arm, curled up next to his pillow, and closed his eyes.

The next time he woke up, it was full daylight, and Dean was already up. He came in with coffee and muffins as Sam was getting dressed.

“Rockford, Illinois,” Dean said, depositing Sam’s coffee in his hand. “Dad sent co-ordinates an hour ago. Eat up; it’s a nine-hour drive, and we need to get moving.”

Business as usual.

Right.

END


End file.
